


I'll Try Anything Once

by DailyDoseOfDisappointment



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Hook-Up, I'll Try Anything Once, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DailyDoseOfDisappointment/pseuds/DailyDoseOfDisappointment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan has hit rock bottom; he's in a place so low, he's not sure that he'll ever be able to get back up. Things get even worse when he's thrown into a complicated relationship with local troublemaker, Craig Tucker. Thrust into a world of violence, gratuitous sex, and drug abuse, it seems that South Park's golden boy is determined to destroy himself. One way, or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Met Again At City Wok

_ “Ten decisions shape your life-- you’ll be aware of five, about. Seven ways to go through school; either you’re noticed or left out. Seven ways to get ahead, seven reasons to drop out.” _

_\- The Strokes_

“Dude-- you gonna finish that?”

I didn’t look up at Cartman, stirring the tempura noodles in my cup without much of a desire to eat it at all. It seemed silly to me that I’d ordered it at all, and I felt bad because it was really a waste of Kenny’s money. He liked to take us out to lunch once a week, ever since he’d gotten his job at the local Whole Foods store. He couldn’t exactly afford to take us out like this, but he insisted anyway, because he wanted to prove to us that he actually had money to spend. Despite this, I couldn’t bring myself to eat, and I guess that was pretty unsettling to the other two, considering the way that they were staring at me. I only sighed in response to the question, taking a moment to think over my answer before I let my eyes flicker up to the other, stockier boy at the table.

“I don’t know. I’m really not hungry.”

“Man, you’re always hungry,” uttered the blonde, cocking his head and resting his cheek in his palm. He watched me with concern in his eyes, and I couldn’t help but feel bad. Kenny had a way of guilt tripping me without meaning to. “Are you sick or something?”

So that was why they were staring at me. Yeah, I guess I was usually a bottomless pit, even when we went out to City Wok. It wasn’t exactly the most appetizing food, but it was the only Chinese restaurant in all of South Park, and I wasn’t really a picky eater. Seeing me barely touch my food was a rarity, and it was pretty bizarre, because my stomach is basically a furnace. I can eat just about anything, anytime, anyday. But that day was different. That past week had been different. That past month, or two, or three, had all been different.

“Something,” I replied vaguely, letting my eyes fall back on the noodle cup before pushing it across the table. “Here, Cartman. You can have it.”

“Sweet. Thanks.” He reached out for it, then scowled. “How the fuck do you eat with these tiny sticks, dude? They’re like-- hard to use.”

“Figure it out, fatass. It just takes effort and practice.” Kenny laughed awkwardly from across the table, but the resounding silence that followed was nearly impossible to break. The three of us just sat silently for a while, Cartman and Kenny casting glances around the restaurant as I stared down at the tabletop.

“Do you think they’ve got any to-go boxes?” Cartman broke the silence once again, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. I was expecting him to tell me not to be such a pussy, or to quit being a faggot, but it didn’t really hit me with much surprise when he remained relatively reverent. Nothing really surprised me anymore.

“I’ll go find out,” Kenny offered immediately, swallowing the lump in his throat and scuttling off before either of us even had a chance to protest. Usually, Kenny was the one who kept us sort of glued together. Cartman, while the most charismatic, tended to piss me off with relative ease. Kenny was just chilled out and sociable, and was a happy medium between Eric and I. Without him at the table, the two of us simply sat in silence. A few awkward moments passed before finally my childhood friend piped up, sounding a little tentative for once.

“So. Have you talked to Broflovski at all since--”

“No, we haven’t talked,” I replied, shaking my head.

“I pretty much figured. You never did make up with your little girlfriend, then, huh? Too bad. You guys-- you were good for each other.” Cartman grinned at me from across the table, trying for a moment-- and brutally failing-- to lighten the mood. When I didn’t respond, he sighed.

“Look, dude,” he said, resting his cheek in his palm, looking pretty tired and upset for once. “It really sucks what happened between you and Kyle. I know you were best friends and everything, but…” He trailed off, as if he had something more to say, but no words came forth. I waited, gave him a few minutes to make up his mind before I exhaled a puff of air, looked up at him, and offered a small grin.

“Chill, fatass. I’m fine.” 

“I wish you’d drop that nickname.”

“Not in a million years.”

Kenny joined us at the table a few minutes later with a couple of shitty looking brown boxes that folded up the way all Chinese takeout boxes seem to. I watched with muted horror as Cartman dumped the entirety of the noodle cup-- juice and all-- into his brown box. I didn’t bother to say anything. It would be better just to see his reaction. Totally worth a laugh.

We all got up and left. Cartman shrieked when the watery juice from my noodles began to drizzle out of the bottom of the box, and splattered across his front. It was a lot less funny than I had hoped it would be. We talked about the next time we’d go out, and all agreed that next Tuesday sounded fine, and that we’d maybe skip on over to Fairplay if we were too bored of the food in South Park. With that, the other two tramped off to the beat up old car that Kenny had bought two summers prior. God, it was a piece of shit, but it got him where he needed to go, and he was proud of it. I watched them pile in and drive off, and I leaned up against the wall with a little frown. I felt strange, empty, and unbearably lonely. 

For years, I’d always had Kyle at my side, and it felt wrong to be away from him. This was how things had been since the middle of December, I thought, and I cursed to myself. Had it really already been six months since we’d last spoken? That made my stomach cramp up a little bit, and my heart skipped a beat in my chest, but I quickly pushed all of that angsty anxiety out of my head. I was alone, standing out on the street, and I decided that I needed a cigarette. I lit one up, let the smoke fill my nose and mouth, and breathed in the tepid night air, looking up at a sky that I hadn’t paid any attention to in-- ugh-- six months. The thought made me uncomfortable.

For a while, there was nothing to break my silent reverie. I kept on getting dragged back to thoughts of my old friend, and how I was starting to feel genuinely sorry for all of the crap that we’d said and done to one another. For the things I’d said to him, and I came to the realization that I was really, really missing him. He’d helped me to cope with my parents’ divorce back in middle school; he’d been there for me when my grandpa passed away, freshman year. Hell, he’d even come to the funeral with me as emotional support. All through high school, he’d counseled me over stupid breakups with stupid girls, and he always made me feel way better about my situation, even if it was shitty. We’d gone on so many wild and wacky adventures together, and seen so many strange things. And then senior year happened. Now that he was gone, it felt like there was just this giant, gaping hole in my life that I couldn’t fill in, no matter how hard I tried.

A truck pulled into the parking lot, and I let my eyes shift lazily over to the vehicle that had broken my perfectly horrible silence. I watched carefully, grateful for the distraction, as somebody clamored out of the rusty old thing, slammed the door shut, and started up toward the front door of the restaurant. He glanced up at me and paused, briefly making eye contact with me before he raised his fist, and his middle finger along with it.

“Tucker,” I offered curtly in reply, watching as he dropped his hand and continued toward the front doors of the restaurant.

“Marsh,” he said, as if he hadn’t just casually flipped me off. He slipped into the restaurant, and the doors shut after him. I breathed in another plume of smoke, watching as a pair of headlights lit up the road, and one lonely car cruised down the street at a lazy pace. It was a pretty quiet night, especially for summer. I looked up when I heard the doors swing open a few minutes later. Craig Tucker stepped out with his arm hooked around a brown paper bag. 

“Hey. Can I get a cigarette?” 

“Uh. Sure.” I fished the carton from my pocket and flipped the little package open. He took one with a quiet grunt, and pulled a lighter from his pocket. He offered it to me with a little shrug.

“Can you light me up?”

“Yeah,” I complied. With a slight frown, I flicked the lighter tip, and raised my hands, cupping the tiny flame as it burned the tip of his cigarette. He sucked in a small breath, and a few rivulets of smoke escaped his nose a moment later. I withdrew my hands, and he reached out for his lighter. 

“Thanks,” he said, casting me an expression that really wasn’t angry enough to be a glare. A hollow stare, more than anything. He turned away from me, pocketing his lighter, and he started away without another word.

“Sure,” I muttered awkwardly, watching him retreat with just a bit of confusion. He climbed back into his truck and sat there for a while, and then he was gone. I followed suit, deciding it was time to head home. I couldn’t help but think about Craig Tucker the whole way back to my place. He was a weird guy. He didn’t have a care in the world, and that seemed just fine by him. I wondered briefly if it was possible to become like him-- maybe it would be nice to not feel or care about anything.

I’d work on it.


	2. The Last Time I Saw Craig Tucker

_ “Everybody was well dressed, and everybody was a mess. Six things, without fail, you must do so that your woman loves just you. All the girls played mental games, and all the guys were dressed the same.” _

_ -The Strokes _

“This next song goes out to all of you little love birds out--”

The disk jockey was cut off mid-sentence, audio feedback bursting through the speakers as his microphone was snatched away. Craig Tucker had wandered onto the stage, staggering and pausing every few steps to catch his balance. Dressed entirely in casual attire, it was clear to all of us that he was not invited; he was crashing our prom night. 

“There-- will be no next song,” he uttered into the microphone. Even though he was mumbling, he enunciated every word into the mic, and it rang out loud and clear from every speaker in the auditorium. By now, everybody had stopped dancing, and was watching in horror as he made his way to the front of the stage. Glaring at all of us, he continued.

“You guys don’t deserve a next song. You guys all fucking  _ suck _ , and I hate  _ every last one of you _ .” He slowly paced back and forth, looking somewhat like a caged animal, agitated and angry, and ready to strike. Most of us who had gathered in the gymnasium were already pretty damn terrified. Nearly everybody in the audience had a horrible, twisted idea of who Craig Tucker was.

“ _ You _ should kill yourselves,” he sneered in a slur, as if it wasn’t obvious enough that he was drunk or high on something. “It should have been  _ you _ , you fucking monster freaks. But you’re just sitting here partying away, like you’re perfect, innocent angels. I’m not fucking buying it for a  _ second. _ ”

For starters, Craig Tucker dropped out freshman year. He didn’t talk to anybody, not even the people he’d once considered close friends. He hadn’t really talked to anybody since what happened in middle school. I hadn’t spoken with him since then; nobody could get close after what happened to Tweek. Craig had always been a little bit of a troublemaker, but once all of that shit went down, he got into some really, really dark shit, and people started passing around really awful rumors.

“Do you honestly think he deserves this? Do you think it’s funny? You’re all so happy, and you don’t deserve to be, and it makes me fucking  _ sick _ .” He paused for a moment, panting and catching his breath, and swaying slightly before he gained his bearings. “He should be here, dancing and laughing, and he’s not. That should bother every  _ one  _ of you monsters.  _ Murderers _ .”

Some of the more popular gossip included him being a satanist, eating puppies, or participating in giant orgies in Denver. I suspected that none of them were true, but there was always a little niggling of doubt in there, like perhaps some of the stories were rooted in truth or something like that. They might not have been a hundred percent true, but they weren’t necessarily  _ all  _ false, that sort of a thing. 

“You guys act like nothing happened-- like we didn’t do anything wrong. You’re fucking  _ sickos _ , and I….” The jockey came to his senses, and started into the next song, drowning out Craig’s voice with music that was far too loud. Rather than giving up and putting down his instrument of terror, however, Craig simply began to shout into it.

“And I wish you were all dead! I’d trade you all for him a thousand times over!” 

Now, I wasn’t exactly having a blast at prom, anyway. My night had been ruined way earlier on in the evening, so his little drunken rampage was really not hurting my feelings in any way, shape or form. I guess it was sort of shitty that he’d decided to ruin everybody’s night, but I genuinely didn’t care. I watched him, and listened to what he had to say, and I sort of felt bad for him. I turned to find Kyle standing at my side, watching with a similar semblance of pity, and we shared a brief look before silently agreed that it was time to get out and go home. We went and gathered our things, and watched as Tucker was escorted off the stage by a security guard. I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d even gotten in, in the first place.

That was the last time I saw Craig Tucker before our little run-in at City Wok.

“Dude, I’m sorry about what happened with Wendy,” Kyle said as we tramped our way through the parking lot. I merely shrugged, shaking my head, and unlocking the door as we came to my car. He immediately climbed into the passenger’s seat, and I got behind the wheel. I didn’t start the car immediately, deciding instead that I needed a moment to breathe.

“Nah, it’s cool. You called it, man.” I cast him a slight grin, shrugging again and leaning back against my seat. “She ditched me. But you  _ were _ the best rebound ever.” He stared at me with a nervous laugh, and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Shut up, Marsh,” Kyle uttered meekly, his fingers twisting into the hem of his jacket. I knocked my fist against his shoulder playfully, and he turned to look at me with a challenging expression. “Or I’ll use that slow dance as blackmail.”

“Hey. If you tell anybody about that, you’re blackmailing yourself. You homo.” We both laughed, and he settled back into his seat, beaming at me with his hazelish eyes all squinted up at the corners. That was how you could tell he was really smiling. His eyes would crinkle up and a little dimple would indent one corner of his mouth. 

“Hey, I may have offered, but you agreed!” He closed his eyes, then heaved a little sigh, glancing out the window at all of the other kids who were leaving the dance now. Some of them looked a little perturbed by the night’s proceedings, but most simply didn’t care. The larger portion of our class was still inside, dancing the night away as though nothing had happened at all. I did my best to push all of that crap out of my head, focusing on my best friend instead. I turned to look at him again, offering up a goofy grin in hopes of distracting the both of us from the giant drama bomb that had come in the form of Craig Tucker.

“Hey, Kyle?” 

“Yeah, man?”

“You think there’s anybody on the planet who’ll ever understand us the way we do?” He hummed, looking thoughtful for a moment when he glanced back at me. Kyle gave me this sorta smile, and a little chuckle, but shook his head.

“No, not really. There are only two people on earth who operate on our wavelength. Just you and me.” I smiled back at him in response, closing my eyes and shoving my car key into the ignition. Giving it a quick twist, the engine roared to life, and the low hum that came with it was honestly pretty comforting. The both of us relaxed almost immediately, and I watched him place his hand on the armrest as he reclined in his seat. 

I couldn’t help but think over that reply a few times in my head. Kyle had the neatest way of saying things, and it always made me feel safe and at ease. He was smart, and always knew exactly the words to say. Sometimes, I wondered if he could read my mind. Maybe we really did communicate with a secret signal that the rest of the world couldn’t recognize. Maybe that was why we were drawn together, and stuck together, even after so many years of insanity, disaster and tragedy.

We chatted quietly all the way back to his place, and I decided to crash there since the next day was Sunday. He had homework to do, but he abandoned it in favor of my company, which I was more than happy to give him. We stayed up the rest of the night playing some stupid video game, and we chatted idly about some of the stuff that had happened earlier on in the night. 

I was really not as upset as I should’ve been about what happened with Wendy, but we’d been dating on and off with very little interest in each other all year long. When she ran off without a word as to where she was, without a text to let me know she was okay, and without inviting me to tag along with her, I really wasn’t too surprised or disappointed. I mean, I guess I was a little bit upset that she had insisted we should go to prom, and I spent a ton of money to take her, only to have her leave me halfway through the dance. It felt like our relationship was all superficial anyway.

“Yeah, dude,” Kyle said, chewing on his bottom lip in concentration as he shot another fireball in my direction. I quickly defended myself with a raise of my shield, rolling off to the side at the last possible second in an attempt at getting in a hit with my blade. “You need to stop spending so much time worrying about girls. It seems like every girl you’ve dated up until now, you haven’t given a shit about, or she hasn’t given a shit about you.”

“I guess,” I responded, grunting as his stupid elf wizard shot a bolt of lightning at me. I made my guy duck left, but he wasn’t quick enough, and ended up stunned. Kyle laughed, voicing his victory as he went in for the kill, destroying my knight with a final burst of fire that consumed him.

“Player two wins!” 

“Ugh. Your elf is overpowered as fuck,” I whined, falling onto my back with a pout. He merely smirked at me, then laid down beside me with a little yawn.

“One of these days, you’ll figure out how to beat me.”

“You’ll be the first to know when I do,” I replied turning to look at him. We shared a little laugh, as if that little volley was the funniest thing in the whole world. To us, it really was. I rolled onto my side, watching him for a moment before I frowned.

“So,” I murmured, suddenly a little uncomfortable. “What do you think people will be saying about Tucker when we get back to school on Monday?”

“Oh, they could say a multitude of things,” Kyle uttered with a scowl, looking quite uncomfortable himself. “Maybe they’ll say he’s trying to sacrifice South Park to bring Tweek back from the dead. It wouldn’t surprise me if somebody did come up with that, after tonight.”

“I can’t believe he crashed the prom like that.”

“You can’t?” Kyle looked at me, raising an eyebrow incredulously. “Dude, it’s Craig we’re talking about. I’m pretty sure he’ll do anything to make somebody else as miserable as he is.”

“Miserable? Craig has no feelings, he’s just…” I was shot a sharp look by my friend, and I frowned in response, looking away.

“You think he has no feelings? Dude, he wouldn’t have gotten up on that stage if he didn’t.” I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly very aware of how insensitive I must have sounded. “He poured his heart out up there. Whether it was justified or not is a different story. I feel bad for him.”

“I mean, I feel bad for him, too. But maybe people have good reason to be afraid of him, you know? That’s all I meant.”

“I think there are plenty of reasons to be afraid of him,” Kyle agreed, closing his eyes. “But I think he’s really just miserable, and his way of coping is doing all of that scary, bad stuff that makes everybody else hate him.” I sat up to shut down the console, then cast one last glance over at my ginger haired friend.

“Maybe if he would let people in, it would be a little bit easier to understand him,” I murmured, frowning in thought before I joined Kyle down on the bed again.

“Well,” he said with a little grimace. “The last time he let somebody in, it didn’t end very well. I can’t say I blame him for being as closed-off as he is, Stan. I think I’d like to talk about something else, now.”

We chatted tiredly for a little while, and ended up on the significantly lighter subject of video games and movie plots. By the time we drifted off to sleep, we were in far better spirits.

That was about a year ago, before Kyle and I stopped talking.


	3. Craig Tucker Eats Puppies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shrug.

_"Every time we are slow. Where are we going so fast? We could bear to stay awake, because the sun cannot last."_

_\- The Dead Texan_

I stared at my computer screen with a sort of anxiety I hadn’t felt in a long time. I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting to happen, but I felt this horrible pit in the bottom of my stomach. Would he hunt me down and skin me in my sleep? Probably not, but that didn’t stop my imagination from running away with the thought.

At some point since that weird little encounter at City Wok, I’d decided it would be a genius idea to try to get into contact with Craig over social media. To be honest, his facebook page was absolutely desolate-- I’m a little surprised he never deleted it-- with the last real status _he’d_ made being dated back to almost seven years prior. Of course there was horrendous graffiti littering his wall, and I scrolled through a small portion of the garbage with a scowl.

“CRAIG TUCKER EATS PUPPIES -- With Craig Tucker,” was the most recent message on his page, the status having been published by none other than Cartman. Grimacing, I flagged it as harassment, and went about my business. I opened up the private messaging drop down, and began to type.

_‘Hey, Craig. ’_ I paused, reading over that stupid greeting a couple times. With a moan, I shook my head. That looked dumb. I hit the backspace until it was gone, and started over, this time trying to find something better to send.

_‘ So, I ran into you the other day, and-- ’_

That was even worse, I thought. I deleted that line, staring at the blank space on my screen where a message should have been. It took every ounce of my resolve to not walk away from my computer desk. Instead, I just sort of sat there, staring at the screen and wondering to myself if I would ever find the perfect way to start a conversation. How was I supposed to get this guy’s attention? How would I interest him without making myself sound desperate or creepy?

_‘ Hey, I’m thinking about you right now, and I’ve been thinking about you for a few days, and I want to talk, ’_ every message that I conceived seemed to scream. Absently, I found myself tugging at a piece of hair, doing everything I could to satiate my nerves without entirely tearing it out. I wasn’t trying to be creepy, nor was I trying to stalk the guy. I just wanted to send him a message and see if maybe he’d respond, hit me back, give me some sort of validation, or _something_ like that.

I eventually walked away from the monitor in favor of shuffling down to the living room, where I found my mom draped across the sofa with a bag of chips and some crime show playing on the television. She smiled at me, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back as she lifted her feet to give me a place to sit. I offered up no protest when she crossed her legs over my lap, once I sat down and made myself comfortable.

“Hey, sweetie,” she hummed, eyes still glued to the television screen. Tilting the bag back so that I could take a few of her potato chips, I watched as one man was tackled to the ground and handcuffed by a police officer, who recited the detainee’s Miranda rights.

“Hi, Mom,” I drawled quietly, munching away on the chip with a quiet hum of my own. She turned to cast me a look, grabbing the bag again so that she could keep noshing. Honestly, I didn’t care; I wasn’t hungry at all.

“Sheila Broflovski called today,” she stated nonchalantly, to which I couldn’t help but grunt.

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“Only in a court of law,” she attempted in a tease. When I didn’t smile, she sighed. “You can talk to Mommy, you know. I’m not gonna go spoil the details of your _super_ complicated life to the whole town.” She sat up a little bit, frowning when I visibly hardened, and reached out to pat me on the back.

Since she and Dad had gone through their divorce, my mom had undergone a plethora of changes. For some reason, she was super into yoga now, and liked to act positive, and pretended that she didn’t have any neurotic problems in her past. Hell, she even tried to call herself a vegan-- even though I’d caught her eating bacon on several occasions. But really, she’d been doing a good job finding happiness for herself, and it made me feel good to see her so-- I don’t know-- whole. She’d even let her hair grow out, when she’d been keeping it short since Shelly was born.

“Stanley,” she said, moving her hand to the base of my neck to knead her fingers into the back of my head, trying to soothe me. “I’ve been worried about you lately. A _lot_ of people have been worried about you lately. I wish you would just-- talk to somebody, you know? All you’ve done for the past six months is sit up in your room. What do you even do all day?”

“I sleep,” I replied with a noncommittal shrug, casting my gaze anywhere that wasn’t her face. My response seemed to upset her, and she frowned, squeezing the nape of my neck.

“Do I need to take you to see somebody? Do you want me to find somebody for you to talk to?”

“No, Mom. I’m fine, really. I’m just being extra quiet lately. Is that so wrong?”

“You’ve been a little ‘extra quiet’ for more than half of a year. The last time I asked you if you were doing okay, you told me that you wanted to drop out. Are you depressed?” I didn’t respond, keeping my eyes trained on our totally unremarkable rug. “You’re depressed. Of course. Why didn’t I see it before? I’ll make a few phone calls, okay, sweetheart? There’s no way that I’m going to let my baby suffer through this--”

“Mom, I’m fine.” I heaved a sigh, unapologetic for cutting her short. Staring at me with true concern, she dropped her hand from the back of my head, brow scrunching up. “I’m not depressed. I’m not anything. I’m just-- I’m just-- figuring it out. I’m just figuring it out.”

“Figuring _what_ out?”

“I don’t know. Myself? Life? I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair, leaning back against the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling. She picked up the remote and turned off the television wordlessly, sitting up straight so that she could better look at me. I felt a hand on my cheek, and my gaze was guided back to her.

“Stan. I am your mother,” she said in a low, firm tone. “And as your mother, I am very concerned for your health. I understand that you’re an adult now, but that doesn’t mean that I’m just going to stop worrying about your well-being.”

“I know,” I told her. We stared at each other briefly before she sighed and let her hand fall from my cheek, standing and taking the potato chips with her. I watched her go, feeling just a little bit guilty for reasons that I didn’t quite understand. She didn’t come back after that, and I lazed on the couch by myself for a while, watching the same thing over and over again; some guy tried to skip town while on bail, some lady was driving drunk, some idiot was stripping nude in public, and all of them were arrested in fifteen minutes or less.

Before long, I wandered back up the stairs and threw open my bedroom window, and slipped back over to my computer. The message space was still as I’d left it, empty and sort of depressing to look at. I watched as my cursor blinked in the text box, goading me to type something out and send it. Rubbing my temples, I heaved a sigh of distress, trying to make up my mind. After what must have been ages, I finally started to type.

_‘ Hey, Craig, ’_ I began, sighing as the text began to fill up the empty space. _‘ I ran into you the other day, and I was wondering what all you’ve been up to, or if you would-- ’_

I groaned in frustration and deleted all of it once more, doing everything I possibly could _not_ to rip out strands of my hair. I closed my eyes, then slipped over to my window and lit up a cigarette. The air outside was kinda cool, and the sun had already gone down, leaving nothing behind but a trail of stars and a few clouds to litter the sky.

I stared out at the empty streets with a feeling of melancholy hopelessness, thinking briefly back on that time when I was younger-- that one time when I started hanging around some older kids who called themselves goth. At the time, it had seemed like the only rational way for me to take out my frustrations and all of that. Now, it made me want to facepalm. I wondered briefly upon what happened to Michael, Pete and Henrietta. I knew Firkle was still around, because he was in the same grade as Kyle’s younger brother. When I would pick Kyle up for school in the morning, I used to drive Ike to the middle school first, and he’d run off with his little friends. Somehow, the weird, angry little ball of gothic hatred that was Firkle had been finagled into a friendship with the happy little Broflovski kid. The Broflovskis really were special.

It was weird to think about them again, after such a long bout of silence between me and Kyle. I felt sort of bad for snapping at my mom earlier. I knew all she was trying to do was help me, and make me happy, but I guess I may have over reacted a little bit. I just didn’t want to hear about Kyle, or to have anything to do with him,  because he _definitely_ didn’t want to have anything to do with me. If he wasn’t going to talk to me, then I wasn’t going to talk to him. That seemed fair.

I could tell I was going to get upset if I stayed on that train of thought, so I cast my gaze up to the night sky and tried to pick out a few constellations. I managed to locate the big dipper when I heard a little _‘ping!’_ resound from my computer. I turned to read the message, expecting something from Cartman, probably him whining about getting a warning from Facebook. Instead, I found myself staring at somebody else’s username on my private messaging box.

_‘ Marsh. You’ve been staring at my profile and typing for like ten minutes. What the fuck do you want? ’_

I had to swallow the lump in my throat, reading it over for a few seconds before I cursed to myself. Dammit, I should have just dropped it and walked away. I should have closed the private message and gone about my business. Why did I have to leave it open ?

_“ Fuck ,”_ I hissed, flicking out the ashes of my cigarette and turning my full attention on my computer screen again. I began to type.

_‘ Sorry, ’_ I wrote, biting my lip in concentration. _‘ I wasn’t trying to bug you or anything like that. I was just going to shoot you a message and say hello. ’_ I hit the enter button, and cringed when I did. Ugh. That had to be the _worst_ thing I could have said. I watched in mild horror as three words popped up at the bottom of the screen, flashing on, and then off again every few seconds.

_Craig is typing…_

With wide, waiting eyes, I watched as the little phrase disappeared and then reappeared, as if he was typing out some long, thought-out response to my stupid sentence. Then, a few seconds later, his reply came through.

_‘ Ok. ’_ I nearly choked on my disbelief. That was it? _Okay?_ That was all? I frowned, brow furrowing. Well, at least he hadn’t told me to piss off or something. I started typing again, rubbing the back of my neck in an attempt at calming down my nerves. I had to talk to him. I just wanted to know what it was _like_.

_‘ I need your help. ’_

_‘ With what. ’_

_‘ Can we meet up? It’s complicated.'_

There was another few minutes of dead air. The little checkmark that indicated my message had been read popped up, with a little note saying that it had been seen at 8:17 p.m. I waited with baited breath, wondering if he would actually respond. I checked the clock five minutes later, and then grew nervous when another ten went by. It must have been a solid half hour before I finally got an answer, and his icon popped up.

_‘ Tomorrow, 7:00 p.m., behind Skeeter’s. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave. ’_

_‘ Okay. ’_

There was no confirmation after that, that he had read my message. It was sent, and left unopened, and I kept an eye on it for a while before I finally shook my head and closed the Facebook tab. This was weird. I felt really, really weird.


	4. Choices, Good Or Bad

 

_"Steady my uncertain circulation, o' aimless carrier of respiration. Jewels on a lash, all exists in reserve. Parallel paths yield a curve."_

_\-- Benoît Pioulard_

I really had to debate with myself whether or not I actually wanted to meet up with Craig at all. I wasn’t sure or confident at all in anything that I had done leading up to our conversation. But he’d agreed to meet up with me, and that was at least a little bit of a plus, right? It wasn’t like I’d pressured him into coming, and it wasn’t like he’d pressured me or anything like that. I chalked up my insecurity to anxiety, nervousness for our meeting. I wanted to message him and tell him that something had popped up, that I had to cancel because I had plans, but I knew I would probably never get another chance to talk to him if I did. He wasn’t stupid.

That’s why, at six o’clock, I pulled on my jacket and sat in the living room to watch some lame soap opera with my mom. She asked me where I was going, and I told her I was heading out to meet Kenny and Cartman around seven. She didn’t really ask me any more questions about what I was doing after that, and we chatted idly about her show, and why she wanted Jack to end up with Kristine, because Kristine’s boyfriend was a jerk with too much money. Admittedly, I wasn’t really listening to anything my mom was saying. I was too busy trying to figure out what I would say to Craig when I got there. Would he be mad at me for asking him to come? Would he just not care? The latter was far more probable. Craig seemed like the kind of guy who just didn’t give a fuck about anything, and would go with whatever flow captured his attention at the moment he was making a decision.

What was I going to say? What was I _supposed_ to say?

My mom eventually seemed to catch on to the fact that I wasn’t listening, and stopped talking about which couples she wanted to see hook up, and which characters were her favorite. She grew quiet, and the brooding look on her face clued me in that she was probably upset with me for zoning out. I didn’t say anything, though. I knew how she worked, and apologizing only ever served to get her riled up. We sat there in the quiet for a good twenty minutes more, before she pointed out the time to me, and told me I should hurry along if I didn’t want to be late. I thanked her and gave her a kiss on the cheek before I slouched my way out the front door.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, trying to think, pressuring my brain to make a proper thought. I gave up after a while and twisted my keys into the ignition. When the engine sputtered to life, I buckled my seatbelt into place and hooked up my iPod to the tape deck, shuffling through the first couple of songs. I really liked my iPod. The only problem that I really had with it was that with all of the thousands of songs on it, I couldn’t always find what I was looking for. The first songs that popped up were a little too upbeat, and I really wasn’t in the mood for that, so I skipped them until I found something suitable, sat back in my seat, and took a breath.

I really needed to calm down, or I was going to give myself some serious anxiety or something. I took another breath in, thought for a moment, then fumbled for my cigarettes. I lit one up, took a drag, and pulled away without a second thought. I really don’t know, even now, why I was stressing the way that I was. Maybe it was that I hadn’t spoken with him in so long. Maybe it was that the last time I’d spoken to him was under a rather depressing circumstance. Perhaps there was a little piece of me that was worried he just wanted to kick my ass for reasons I didn’t understand. Nonetheless, I took one last calming breath, shifted gears to reverse, and pulled out of the driveway, sparing no further thought to the situation.

I got to Skeeter’s Bar without interruption. As if fate had a hand in my short voyage, I didn’t hit a single red light, and there was hardly another person on the road. I quietly cursed my luck, wishing that for once I’d been late-- I was almost never on time. Today, I was going to be early. I didn’t pull into the parking lot right away, I sat there like an idiot for a minute or two. It wasn’t like there was anybody around to get road rage or anything, so I just sort of sat in the turning lane, staring at the building with a sense of dread welling up in my stomach. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I knew I couldn’t park in the front and walk around back-- that would look shifty as hell, and the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself. Instead, I pulled out of the turning lane, and found my way to the alley behind the bar, coming to a stop at the dumpster. I found that I was not the only one who had arrived early. Leaning back against the wall, smoking a  cigarette and looking like he was ready to murder somebody, was Craig Tucker. He turned to glare at me, but his stare was so empty that I couldn’t really decipher if it was meant to be a glare or not. I offered a little wave, but he didn’t respond. He merely looked away from me in distaste, scowling.

“Uh, hey,” I uttered as I climbed out of the car. His eyes shifted over to look at me, his brow furrowing slightly before his face smoothed out again, expressionless and unreadable as ever. He took a long drag on his cigarette, breathing out a small cloud as I approached him.

“What do you want, Marsh?” His tone was almost as accusatory as it was uninterested, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking away. I must have been a real nuisance to this guy, the way he was looking at me now. I felt a little bit guilty for asking him to meet with me, now. I went to stand before him, my arms crossed self consciously across my chest, and he probed me with icy gray eyes.

“I just-- I wanted to know how you--” I coughed, suddenly feeling my throat clench up, and he said nothing, waiting patiently for me to finish my thought. I couldn’t even process what words to say. Even now, I’m really not sure what it was that had me so freaked out. I’d always thought that I was more understanding a person, that I wouldn’t be scared of somebody else simply based upon rumors. I’d never thought ill of Craig before, but now that I was standing in front of him, with those gray eyes looking me over like I was a speck on the pavement, I felt horribly small.

He raised an eyebrow and lowered his head slightly, growing impatient. I guess I had stopped breathing, so I took a moment to do that, because that was important. Finally, I seemed to gather my bearings, and I met his cold stare with my own, slightly nervous gaze.

“I’m tired,” I told him meekly. He merely scoffed, looking up at the clouds.

“Have you thought about killing yourself?” He asked it so casually, and it caught me slightly off guard. There wasn’t an ounce of guilt upon his features when he asked, and I could barely stop myself from shuddering.

“Uh-- n-no, not that kind of tired, dude,” I uttered, shaking my head vehemently. He sighed out another puff of smoke, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Oh.”

“I’m just-- I’m exhausted, and you just seem so…” I couldn’t find the words to say, but he just kept on waiting for me to continue. “Well…”

“So what, Marsh? Get on with it, I don’t have all day.”

“Well. You seemed like the right person for me to ask. What sort of… stuff do you do, man?” I shuffled my feet, looking down at the ground and he lowered his eyes to look at me. His expression grew grim for a moment before his eyebrows raised.

“Lots and lots of drugs,” he responded casually, leaning forward a bit so that he could get a better look at me. “I can give you some, if you want.”

“Dr-- what kind of drugs?” I stared at him incredulously, but he didn’t really seem to care.

“Lots of ‘em,” he replied with a shrug, suddenly looking very bored with this conversation. He finished off his cigarette and then threw it at the ground, stomping it out. I watched him with a measure of contrition. I was really beginning to regret coming here.

“That’s what you need help with, right? Drugs?”

“Well, uh.” I wrung my hands and then sighed,  leaning back against the car, looking away from him. “Not really, man. I don’t even-- really know _what_ I’m doing here.” He craned his head backward, still watching me despite the awkward position of his neck, and the tilt of his chin. He stared down his nose at me, and I felt uncomfortable, but I decided it would be better just to keep talking. Chances were, he wouldn’t say anything at all.

“I thought that maybe-- maybe you would know what I should do. I’m tired of being tired. All I want is to stop giving a shit. I wish I knew how to stop giving a shit.”

Craig stared at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet, and suddenly, I felt like that was exactly what I was. I rubbed my arms, looking away from him with a wince. Had I said too much? I must have looked like a real dumbass. He heaved a sigh after a moment, then pressed back against the brick wall. With that, he offered me the simplest, straightest answer that he possibly could.

“Marsh,” he said, letting his eyes shut. “If you don’t want to give a fuck, then stop giving a fuck. It’s that simple.” He stood up, and made his way over to me, leaning on my car so that he could get a better look at me. I felt a little claustrophobic, but I decided it would be best not to push him away.

“You want to learn how; I can teach you. For a price, which we’ll discuss later.” He glanced over me before he frowned, lips pressing into a thin line. “But you have to do what I tell you to do. No matter what. If you don’t listen, I’m not going to waste my time on you.”

“Uh…” My stomach clenched, and I felt mildly uncomfortable with this idea. I hadn’t talked to Craig in six years. Now he was offering me lessons in apathy. “Sure, dude.”

I had just agreed to something that I hadn’t even thought about, which seemed to please him enough. Silently cursing my impulsiveness, I scowled as he stood up from my car, and he offered me his phone.

“Whatever. Type in your number.” I sighed softly, and took it from him, carefully mapping out the digits before he snatched it back from me, saved the contact, and sent it a message.

_‘Here’s my number. Piss off.’_

Classy.

“Shoot me a message whenever. I’ll come get you or something.”

“Uh… okay…”

“Now for real. Piss off.” With that, he started toward his stupid blue truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. I followed suit, falling behind the wheel of my own car only a few seconds later, and backing out of the alley.

Why he ever chose to help me still puzzles me to this very day.


	5. Take Pills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally, I am frustrated out of my mind with writer's block. I think there will come a day when I read back on everything I wrote and go. 
> 
> "No no no. No, child. Let me show you."
> 
> And then I'll rewrite everything, and it'll be okay. Until then, read this.
> 
> I'm actually so frustrated that I'm about to give up and just post all of the stuff I have written for this, because I genuinely have no idea what I'm going to do with it. I know the end goal, I know how everything ends up, what goes where. I just can't translate it into words. You'll still get your smut, but I just have to stop this before I frustrate myself to the point that I can't enjoy writing it anymore
> 
> Tl;dr
> 
> I'm going to just upload everything I have, write a smut chapter, and call this done until I can figure this out and rewrite it. I hope you'll read what I do with the fixed version of this.

_"Sit me down. Shut me up. I'll calm down and I'll get along with you."_

_\- The Strokes_

“So, are you going to tell me about what the fuck this is all about?” I turned to look at my friend with a hint of a startle, and I groaned, running a hand through my hair. It wasn’t abnormal for him to let himself into my room unannounced, so I just sort of sat there, staring at him dumbly.

“Kyle,” I uttered with a huff. “Look, man. I really don’t want to talk about it. I just can’t deal with school.”

“ _Bullshit,_ man!” I flinched when he grabbed my by the shoulders and spun me around in my chair to look at him. I found myself nose to nose with my freckled buddy, whose eyes were narrowed to slits.

“Do you know how fucked up it is to just _drop out,_ dude? What reason do you even have to drop out? You used to love school!” I stared at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing in an attempt at finding the words to say. I had to break his gaze, my brow furrowing.

“You can’t just run away from your problems, Stan. Leaving everybody behind is going to get you nowhere fast. You’ve been isolating yourself, and now you’re just going to do it more. You _have_ to come back. You have to graduate, man!”

“You wouldn’t get it, Kyle, you--”

“You’re right. I don’t get it.” He sighed angrily, letting go of my shoulders and turning away from me with his arms folded across his chest. I glared at the back of his head.

“What are you, my mother? Jesus, dude, just forget about it. I made the decision. I’m not fit for school, so just get over it.”

“Not fit for-- are you kidding me? If there is anybody fit for school in this entire damned town, it’s you, Stan!”

“Oh, don’t try to feed me that shit. I’m not smart like you. I’m not smart like Wendy. You guys are going to change the world and all of that, and I’m never going to get out of this town.” I sighed and hung my head, glaring down at the floor.

“You could have any future that you’re willing to work for,” he told me, turning around to face me again. “Why won’t you tell me, Stan? I want to know what’s going on with you. Why would you ruin yourself like this?”

“I just-- I’m not happy, in school,” I said, eyes still cast to the floor. “I feel like even when I was trying, I was getting nowhere. I don’t have anything. I’m not talented, and I’m not a genius. I’m not like you.”

“You saying you’re not happy in school is fucking retarded. You’re not happy anywhere, anymore. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re an incredibly smart guy. You need to learn to apply yourself a little more, and--”

“I can’t even keep a girl interested in me for longer than two months at a time.”

He stopped to stare at me, his brow scrunching up, and his eyes widening furiously.

“Seriously, man? Is this about Wendy?” He moaned in frustration, reaching out to grasp my shoulders again, I brushed him off and stood from my chair so that I could look down at him. He glared up at me, entirely unphased by the staggering differences in our height.

“Dude, she said she would meet up with you as _friends_ ! She never said anything about not having a date, or being yours! She didn’t ditch you, she didn’t promise anything at all.  But you’ve done absolutely nothing but moan and groan about it ever since. What about the time we spent together? What about _our_ stupid dance? Didn’t you have any fun at all?”

“This has nothing to do with prom, Kyle! This never had anything to do with prom, it just sort of sucked that that happened too.”

“And you’re just going to add it to the list. The never ending list of ‘Why It Sucks To Be Stan Marsh,’ am I right?” Kyle looked up at me with ferocity and anger evident in those hazel eyes of his. “What about all of the things that make it _great_ to be Stan Marsh? What about-- ‘I have an awesome older sister who travels the world for Peace Corps, and she loves to send me shit from other countries’? Or, ‘there isn’t a single person in town who dislikes me’? What about, ‘I love animals and I’m a big, sensitive dummy when it comes to Sea World?’ Or even, ‘I have more people who are in love with me than I can count on both of my hands!’”

“Stan, you’re wonderful,” he continued, reaching out to place a hand on my bicep. I felt his thumb gently brush over the hem of my sleeve, and I couldn’t stop my breath from staggering from my lips. “You have-- you have so much potential. You’re smart, and athletic, and good looking, and everybody who meets you, _loves_ you. If you would just take a minute or two to see that, you’d be so much happier!”

“Kyle,” I uttered, looking away with a scowl. “You make it sound so easy-- but it’s really _not_ easy. It’s not as simple as… wanting to be happy, and then suddenly being happy. You just don’t understand. Nobody seems to understand.”

“I think I understand you better than you’re giving me credit for, dude. We’ve been best friends since we were in diapers. When we were kids, you never let sadness define you.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” I told him simply, pulling my arm away from his grasp and turning from him with a grunt. “The world isn’t this big, beautiful place like we used to think it is. It’s just--”

“Just, _nothing_ , man,” he hissed, eyes narrowing. “You act like there’s nothing left to be happy about. What about me? What about your mom, and your sister, and your dad, and all of the other people here who care about you? You’re not giving anybody enough credit-- including yourself. You’ve been sitting up here wasting away for three months. This is it. This is the last straw. If you’re not going to listen to me, then I’m not going to talk anymore. I’m tired of giving advice that’s just going to be ignored, Stan. I’m tired of you whining about how horrible your life is, and then doing nothing about it.

“I’m not going to just stand by and watch as you disassemble your entire future. I can’t.”

“Then _don’t_ !” I wheeled around on him and glared, and we were suddenly very close. His eyes widened, briefly very shocked by my outburst, and he took a step back. “Walk away, Kyle. Just _leave_. Forget about it. Forget about me-- just like everybody else.” He stared at me, and his eyebrows pressed together sadly for a moment before he looked away.

“Stan, I--” He cut himself off, his brow furrowing and his jaw setting. “Fine. If that’s the way you really feel, then fine.” He turned on his heel and started for the door, and I suddenly felt my stomach drop.

“Kyle, wait. I’m sorry, don’t--”

“Fuck you, dude.”

The door slammed shut, and I stared at the space that he’d just occupied. My heart beat dully in my chest, and for a minute I just wished it would stop altogether. Instead, I just collapsed onto the bed, angry and upset, and I glared up at the ceiling.

That was the biggest fight Kyle and I had ever gotten into as young adults. I guess, technically, we’re still kids even now, but I felt super grown up at the time. It was the biggest fight I’d ever gotten into with him, and he was so pissed at me that he never bothered to talk to me again. For some reason, I decided two could play that game, and began ignoring him right back. I didn’t understand why he was so mad at me. My life was my own to make or break as I saw fit. It wasn’t like I was hurting him in any way.

It wasn’t like I’d been lying when I’d said I had no future.

He was a smart kid. He was such a smart kid. He’d graduated half a year early and everything, and he’d been offered scholarships left and right. Would you care to guess how many scholarships I’d been offered? None. Not a single one. There wasn’t one college in the whole United STates that was genuinely interested in having me at their school. I’d sort of screwed myself out of it. I could have gone somewhere on a football scholarship if I’d just kept my head in the game. But sophomore year, I bummed out and decided I didn’t want to play anymore, and that was the end of that.

It doesn’t really matter now; I’ve fucked up too badly since then to think about that.

Just before our fight, he’d seemed to notice that I hadn’t been dealing with myself very well, because he conspired with my mother to put me in a therapy session. I finally agreed to go, but it just wasn’t my thing. I didn’t feel comfortable with it, and I didn’t feel as though I really needed it. So when they tried to schedule me for a follow up appointment, I said I’d rather not return. We’d sort of tiffed over that too.

I have the feeling he never actually forgave me for ‘giving up on myself,’ because after that, we just weren’t as close as we’d been before. We used to spend every waking minute of our free time together, and suddenly we weren’t anymore. Sure, we still hung out, but he never came to me and asked me to chill or anything. I was never the aggressor in our friendship, so it just sort of got quiet between us two. I isolated, he avoided me, and when we got bored of that, we sought each other out. That’s how we ended up going to prom together.

Not _together_ , together. Just together. The two of us. Going to a place at the same time, in the same car. That sort of a thing. Don’t take that the wrong way.

Anyway, after our last fight, he got a bunch of scholarships to a bunch of different colleges. He eventually settled on some school in Maryland, even though he could have gone to a more prestigious one on the west coast.

According to Kenny, he’d said he wanted to get as far away from South Park as possible. He didn’t come to tell me goodbye, so I figured I was probably part of his damn problem. Good riddance.

I sighed out a deep breath, my head spinning, my mind boggled. I felt as though I was overthinking everything, over analyzing the situation.  But I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering to what had happened. I couldn’t stop wondering what Kyle was up to _right now_ and whether or not he was sleeping in bed. I rolled my head to the side, staring at Craig, who was absently munching away at a bag of popcorn, and staring at the television.

“Dude, I feel weird,” I slurred at him. “I can’t stop-- thinking.”

“It’s just the drugs, Marsh,” he uttered calmly, offering me the popcorn bag. I stared at it, unsure of what he wanted me to do with it, until he retracted it once more and continued to eat.

“Sometimes the pills will make you that way.”

“But why,” I mumbled, letting my head roll back. “Why can’t I stop thinking?”

“You can stop,” he replied blandly. “Just think about stopping, and you’ll stop.”

I grew quiet after that, and digested those words before I put the thought to action, and stopped thinking about it. And I really did stop thinking about it, as if it was the most easy thing in the world to do so. I didn’t spare it another minute, and for the rest of the night, he and I watched shitty horror films in perfect silence. It was the most peace I'd felt in a very, very long time.


	6. We Don't Talk About Tweek Tweak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that was going to be saved for way later. But I'm frustrated, so I'm just going to slap it on here. 
> 
> Believe it or not, this was the first chapter I wrote for this, almost an entire year ago. I didn't want to upload it though, because I just had so many ideas for a full-length story.
> 
> While the ideas still exist, I just can't. 
> 
> Why no can has good write when me wants good write.

_ "There comes a time when we all fail. Some people take it pretty well. Some take it all out on themselves; some, they just take it out on friends." _

_ \- The Strokes _

“We don’t talk about Tweek Tweak.” That was the golden rule, between Craig and me.

It’s pretty safe to say that Craig was still touchy about what happened back then. Then again, we all were. Like I said before, I hadn’t talked to him since what happened in middle school-- since what happened to Tweek.

I sat in the passenger seat of Tucker’s old pickup truck, albeit a bit awkwardly. Neither of us said anything; neither of us had anything to say. He remained silent and stoic, operating the vehicle with lackluster alertness, not really paying much attention to the road. Despite the fact that his eyes were cast out the windshield, it was easy to tell that his thoughts were elsewhere. It wasn’t like he had much to worry about anyway. The traffic was never bad in South Park, because hardly anybody lived there. We had a totally  _ staggering _ population of six-hundred and seventy-nine residents in the entirety of the tiny town. I’d heard tales of high school campuses in the midwest that had student bodies more than twice the size of our entire population.

We made our way through empty streets and deserted alleys, and eventually Craig parked discreetly behind the old church. I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly to myself. It didn’t really matter who you were, or what your beliefs were. There was only one cemetery in the entirety of South Park, and it was located right behind the Roman Catholic church. I pushed the car door open and made to get out, but Craig grabbed me by the sleeve of my jacket, still staring blankly out the window. I blinked and turned to him expectantly, a bit confused by the sudden gesture. 

“I want you to stay here,” he said plainly, still staring out the windshield, expression blank. Honestly, I was a bit surprised: he hadn’t moved at all. He didn’t turn to face me, made no move to open the door, and didn’t look like he really wanted to slide out of the car at all. I frowned, closing the car door and twisting my body around to look at him. Icy blue eyes flickered over to meet mine, but there was nothing readable in his gaze. He remained poker-faced and reserved, emotionless as always he seemed to be.

“Why’d you even bring me then?”

“Just stay in the fucking truck, Marsh,” he grunted, pushing the door open with his foot and letting his fingers uncurl from the fabric of my jacket. I crossed my arms and scowled, letting my head rest against the window so I could stare out at the concrete and marble headstones that littered the ground and blended in with the mountainous background, standing out against the sky. I watched as he treked across the gravel parking area, and padded through dirt and grass as he wove his way among the graves. He stopped after a while, just far enough away that I couldn’t see his face very well, but close enough that I had a general idea of what he was doing. He lit up a cigarette, smoked it, and then disappeared, sinking down among the gravestones. I couldn’t see what he was doing, or what he was up to, so I let my eyes wander elsewhere, looking for something else to distract me.

I should probably try to put things into perspective, I guess. Everybody in South Park was messed up over what happened to Tweek Tweak, but nobody was quite as messed up over it as Craig was. Once upon a time, they were just as close with one another as I had been with Kyle. It was all so stupid, when it started, but what they grew into was really something special. I remember when we were all in elementary school, Cartman, Kyle and I somehow managed to get the two of them to fight. They really beat the snot out of one another, and even ended up in the hospital. After that, they kept their distance, and were pretty quiet about one another. At some point or another, they came to really like one another, and they spent a lot of time together. It was nice to see them get along after all of that crap. I still feel guilty about pitting them against one another, sometimes. It seems silly to regret things from so long ago, regardless.

It wasn’t until the end of the fourth grade year that they really started getting close. There was a point in time when South Park was going through a fit of hysteria over political correctness. I always thought it was pretty stupid to try and change the way that we were. We were nobodies. To this very day, we are nobodies. What a bunch of silly kids were doing in a hick town, almost ten thousand feet above sea level, should not have bothered anybody in the world. Nonetheless, at some point through the year, people came to the conclusion that Craig was a homosexual, and Tweek was his love interest. Everybody went crazy over it, and they ended up in some sort of an exclusive relationship, voluntary or not. I think for a long time they really were just faking it. It wasn’t until we reached middle school that they really became invested in one another.

For years, they were alone together. Everybody isolated them and made them into an untouchable item, and over time, Craig started to see things a little differently. I think back on it now, and genuinely think to myself that the scrawny, blonde haired kid was the closest thing to a first love that Craig Tucker ever had. After all of the hysteria died down, and South Park went back to its old, backwater, redneck self, Craig sheltered Tweek from the bullying that came with being a faggot. Craig didn’t care when he came home bloodied and bruised, with busted knuckles, a black eye or broken nose. He would smile and wrap his sore arm around that spazzy kid, and walk him home, and there would never be a scratch on Tweek Tweak, not a hair on his head out of place. Or, more out of place than usual. The smaller boy would always beat himself up when Craig got into fights over him, but Craig would cheer him up and take him out for ice cream or coffee or something gay like that. 

It really said something, that their ‘exclusive relationship’ never faded into a platonic ruse or anything like that. Long after the fads and trends faded away, they remained the school’s gay couple, and there were consequences for that. I don’t think they actually ever cared about the title or anything. They just came to like one another. They fell into a routine, and were too accustomed to it to break it over something as silly as the town’s fanaticism and its constantly changing list of manias. They stayed in their little routine and they came to like it that way, and that was how things went. I guess Craig liked having somebody to rely on him or something. After so many years of being alone, they just sorta decided that was the way things were, and they didn’t mind if it never changed. Sometimes I really envied that.

Long after the trend ended, and South Park went back to its typical, politically incorrect state, they would strut up and down the streets, shamelessly holding hands. Some of us other kids laughed at them, some of us mocked them, some kids wanted to beat them up, or cause them problems. I thought it was pretty pointless to gang up on them, after so many of us had pushed them to get together in the first place. I stayed out of all of that garbage. I still smiled at them and waved at them in the hallways, and was usually only greeted with a middle finger in my face, but I didn’t care. Craig Tucker’s habit of flipping the bird had practically become a reflex by the time we’d all finished fourth grade, so nobody really thought it meant much of anything when he would flip someone off. 

I glanced back out the window again, looking to see if Craig was still out there. I didn’t see him, so he was probably still hunched down among the graves. Wondering what exactly it was that he was doing, I shoved my door open and closed it quietly behind me before making my way across the parking area. It was difficult to be stealthy with gravel crunching underfoot, so I just gave up on that idea and shoved my hands in my pockets, clumsily making my way through the graveyard. It was quiet out there, which was nice in a way. There was a peacefulness there that you couldn’t really find anywhere else in South Park. Even Stark’s Pond had its fair share of visitors, noisy teens looking to party and get high. South Park Cemetery was different. 

I tried to follow the same path I’d seen Craig stumble over, and it wasn’t hard to do. The cemetery was really pretty small, for the only cemetery in town, so I caught up to him with relative ease. Frowning, I paused when I finally discovered his hiding spot. Craig was sprawled out on his back, supine with his eyes closed and a cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t stir when I approached, though he did raise his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay in the truck?” He didn’t really sound angry or anything, so I shuffled my feet and looked away. He sighed out an impressive cloud of smoke, his eyes sliding open to regard me with startling indifference. “Go back to the car, Marsh, or I’ll break your fucking nose.” 

Incredulously, I stared at him, not entirely sure I understood what his problem was. I scowled, but turned to go nonetheless, not really wanting to see if he’d make true on his promise or not. Craig was always one of those people that was easily provoked to violence. He was tough, and he already had a set of busted knuckles from whatever poor fucker had gotten into a scuffle with him earlier that week. I heard him breathe out, relaxing as I made my way back across the cemetery. 

“It’s nothing against you, Marsh,” Craig called, tone dull. I ignored him--  _ mostly _ \-- and trudged my way back to the truck. I sat in there, entirely silent, staring out at the mountains with an incredible feeling of melancholy. Honestly, I just wanted to go back to his place and get high again, and forget about everything that had happened today. It felt like forever before he joined me in the driver’s seat, and again we said nothing to one another. He turned and looked at me, and we shared a knowing gaze very briefly before I looked away again. WIth that, he twisted the keys into the ignition, and we were gone. 


	7. Excerpt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt that I wrote that was also going to go in way later. A buildup of the tension.
> 
> And stuff. 
> 
> Literally had no place in the story yet. But I liked it, so whatever.

We slipped out the back door, and Craig sat down on the porch step with a sigh. He dug through his pockets for a moment before he offered me a cigarette, and I took it with a slow nod of appreciation. I sat down beside him, raising my lighter to the tip of my smoke, and cupping the little flame with my free hand. He leaned forward to share the blaze, his eyes falling shut as he breathed in the ash. For a while, neither of us said anything-- it seemed that the majority of our relationship was filled with absolutely nothing, an emptiness that left us both wanting. Neither of us were willing to go after anything else, though. We were content in our emptiness, and found solace in the fact that we were alone, together. 

We had nobody, not even each other, but we were with one another, and that was enough, I guess.

A plume of smoke billowed out from between his lips, and I turned to find that he was staring off into the dark without any more feeling in his gaze than usual. His eyes drifted over to mine, and we held each other’s stare for a few moments before we looked away. I couldn’t help but shuffle in place, flicking the ashes of my cigarette into the dirt. 

“Your apartment is a piece of shit,” I uttered honestly. “At least the yard is nice.”

“At least I don’t live with my mother,” he responded sharply, without much commitment at all to the statement. Craig had a weird way of saying things that made him sound like he’d meant it, but that he didn’t care if anybody else actually cared about it. His answers were always bone dry and hurtful, and as empty and purposeless as he seemed to think he was. 

“At least,” I agreed quietly, taking a drag on my cigarette. He turned to look at me once more, and I cast my eyes back to his so that he knew I was paying attention. As he lowered the filter from his mouth once more, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“You could move in with me,” he suggested, blowing a little puff of smoke in my face. “You’d have to help me pay bills and shit, but at least you could call this place yours. Or ours. Whatever.”

“Maybe,” I replied, letting my head fall back to look up at the sky. I was quiet for a few minutes before I hummed. “Hey, remember when we were kids? You used to go to the natural science museum, like, once a month. You’d beg and beg, until your parents would advance your allowance for the week, and then brag to everybody when you came to school-- you wanted to be an astronaut so bad.” He merely grunted his response, and I leaned over to crush my shoulder against his. I felt him tense, but he didn’t push me away. He merely took another long breath in, then let his hand rest at his side so that he could look up at the sky that I was staring at.

“Don’t you ever think about what’s out there anymore?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, suddenly sitting forward and forcing me to sit up straight again. He scowled and shut his eyes tight, smothering the ashes of his cigarette against the concrete slab upon which we sat. I watched in mild confusion and distress, but he didn’t pay me any more attention than just talking in my direction.

“Craig--”

“Get your head out of the stars, Marsh,” he said coldly, his fingers drumming impatiently against his knee. “We’re not kids anymore. I don’t want to be an astronaut, I don’t want to see any stars, and I don’t want to run into any aliens, okay? I don’t--  _ need  _ that.”

“What  _ do _ you need, Craig?” I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out for him, and my hand alighted on his shoulder. When he didn’t shake or brush me off, I frowned, but was silently relieved. He remained wordless, thinking over everything that it was that he needed, or wanted, or perhaps he wasn’t even thinking at all. Maybe he was just staring off into space, and pretending that he was somewhere else. The silence was deafening, ear shattering, uncomfortable, but I didn’t dare to break it for fear that it would make him angry or that it would quiet him further. The crickets all hummed around us, and the cicadas whispered off in the trees, and I tried to focus on them in order to drown out the dreadful sound of nothing that hung around us like a fog. 

Finally, Craig Tucker sat up straight, looking up at the sky again, draping his arms over his thighs haphazardly. He let my hand rest upon his shoulder, even relaxing under my touch as I began to rub my fingers into the tense muscle. 

“I just need to be patient,” he said in a voice hardly above a whisper. I turned to look at him, withdrawing my hand, and watched as he shifted his gaze to meet mine. Puzzled, I leaned forward, head falling to the side as I tried to figure out what that was supposed to mean.

“Patient? What for?” His demeanor changed immediately, and he cast his eyes back to the ground for only a moment before he looked up at me again. When he did, his expression grew dark, his eyes icy and cold, and his lips pressed into a peculiar frown. His expression sent shivers down my spine, because never before had I seen Craig Tucker glare at any one specific person with such malice.

“I know that if I’m patient, something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta go my way.” He shifted forward, moving sideways so that his fierce, stormy eyes met with my confused blues, and his brow furrowed even further. I saw nothing in his gaze but hatred. As he continued, he seethed through his teeth, his hands balling into fists. “Why can’t something weird happen to  _ me _ for once?”

It took an eternity for me to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat, and I offered his scathing scrutiny a small, nervous smile. Like a bug under intense study, I couldn’t help but cow beneath his gaze, shrivelling up and withdrawing from the conversation almost immediately. He kept his eyes on me, looking me over before he reached out for me, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, and slipped forward. In that moment, I was sure I was going to die. Craig was going to strangle me to death on the back porch of his stupid apartment. My last few minutes on the planet would be spent with his fingers around my neck. 

He glared at me with the intent of murder, his lips pressed into a thin line, and then suddenly he slammed his mouth into mine. If I wasn’t confused before, I definitely was now. 

With a vice-like grip, he kept his fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, and pulled me closer and closer. Too shocked to struggle, I let myself be drawn in. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks as my eyes fluttered shut, and something soft flickered against my bottom lip. His tongue prodded at the opening of my mouth for a moment before he pulled back impatiently, and my eyes shot open to stare in horror at the guy who was, moments earlier, angrily sucking my face.

“You should try kissing back,” he said dryly, letting his hand unfold from my t-shirt. He stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Sex releases endorphins, you know. It makes you happy or some shit like that.”

“W-What the fuck, man!”

“Just think about it,” he grunted, turning to head back in. “It’s not like anybody has to know.” I stared at his back in utter disbelief as he slipped back inside. Dumbfounded, and not quite able to wrap my head around what had just happened, I watched his retreat, then swiveled around to stare out into the tree line. I raked my hands through my hair, trying to get a grip, to figure out what had just happened.

What  _ had _ just happened? What was that? Was that some sort of a test? Was it just him being a dick? Did he really want to kiss me? Was he angry that I hadn’t kissed him back? I just couldn’t figure it out. What was it that I wanted, for that matter? Did I want to kiss him back?

After a while, the door slid open again, and he stepped back out and sat down beside me. I turned to look at him, and we shared a strange look with one another before he leaned closer to me. I didn’t pull away, and I didn’t stop him. I let him take my lips with his own, this time a little more gently than before. There was nothing. No spark. No desire to take it any further-- but I pressed closer, tilted my head so that it was more comfortable, and hummed when his hand rested upon my thigh. 

“Did you think about it?” He pulled back again, but remained close enough that I could feel his breath against my mouth, smell the cigarettes that he’d been smoking a few minutes before. I exhaled shakily, and I felt his fingers press a little harder into my thigh; it made me shudder.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well?” I opened my eyes to find him studying me with a mixture of curiosity and impatience. His hand moved upward just a little bit, and I shook my head with a little scowl, pushing it away. He seemed disappointed for only a moment, sitting back up straight and looking away from me with disinterest. 

“Dude, I just-- I don’t swing that way,” I uttered, rubbing the back of my neck tepidly. He scoffed at that, casting a glance at me that told me I could eat shit.

“You know, you don’t have to think about me,” he said. “Chances are, I wouldn’t be thinking about you. So you can just-- think about Broflovski, or whoever it is you whine about in your internal monologue or whatever.”

“Dude!” I grimaced, looking away. I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks again, this time from embarrassment. “It-- it’s not like that. I really don’t--”

“You can say that as many times as you want,” he uttered, shaking his head. He slouched forward again, resting his elbows upon his thighs so that he could stare out into the dark again. “It doesn’t really matter. The offers still stand-- every offer. So if you change your mind. You know.” I was quiet for a few minutes before I pushed myself to stand. He didn’t look up at me, but I knew he was paying attention. Clearing my throat, I glanced over my shoulder, then heaved a sigh.

“I should go.”

“Yeah. You should.” He was quiet for a moment as I shuffled my feet, then he continued. “Text me. I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Cool,” I murmured, choking down a spontaneous, random urge to throw myself at the guy. Very suddenly, I felt the need to be close with him--  _ anybody _ . I wanted to kiss and hold and feel a little less useless for a minute or two. Knowing him, though, he would have shoved me away. He was probably pretty pissed off at me-- for reasons that I can’t quite explain, but that I understand perfectly well. I wrapped my fingers around the keys in my pants pocket, and with that, I left. I shot him a message after I got home, asking him where we’d meet up the next day.

_ ‘Don’t worry about it,’  _ was his response.  _ ‘I told you I’ll pick you up. _ ’ 

I heaved a small, distressed sigh, and headed off to bed without a second thought. I didn't even bother to put on my pajamas, too exhausted and confused to do much more than take off my shoes and slip between the covers. 


	8. Excerpt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be the last chapter. Though it wasn't even going to be an actual chapter. It was more like an after-flavoring, something to just tie the story together.

_ “I was raging, it was late. In the world my demons cultivate. I felt the strangest emotion but it wasn’t hate, for once. Yes I’m changing, yes I’m gone. Yes I’m older, yes I’m moving on… Life is moving, can’t you see? There’s no future left for you and me.” _

_ -Tame Impala _

“It sounds like you’ve been through a lot, Mr. Marsh,” the man stated slowly, calmly. He scribbled something down on his clipboard. Shuffling in his seat uncomfortably, Stan watched his therapist with a measure of distrust. It wasn’t like he thought the doctor didn’t want to help him, he just wasn’t sure that anybody could. He felt like such a failure-- such a screw-up-- and being here wasn’t really helping him feel any better. It was nice to be out of South Park for a minute, but the pale, drab walls of the rehabilitation clinic were unbearably depressing. 

For the past hour now, Stan had been answering questions about himself, and begrudgingly shedding some light upon the subject of his life in the tiny town of South Park. The doctor had listened, ostensibly interested in everything the young man said, and transcribing certain things on his paper from time to time. 

“It’s good that you’re here,” the man finally piped up, glancing at him from behind his glasses. Stan frowned, his brow furrowing briefly, unsure of how to receive that comment. “You’ve been making beautiful progress here, and you’re doing quite well. You were in a really bad place before.”

“I’m in a bad place now,” Stan replied, staring down at his lap and crossing his arms a little tighter across his chest. 

“But you’re doing much better, and that’s  _ wonderful _ . You’re doing very well.” He kept an expectant eye on the young man for a moment before he sighed, setting his clipboard down on his desk and leaning forward so that they were eye level with one another. 

“Stanley,” the doctor said carefully, a small frown creasing his lips. “Sometimes, it can be helpful to talk about the things you’ve seen and been through. You’re always so quiet in the group meetings-- have you ever considered standing up and talking?”

“I don’t want to talk,” the young man replied with a shake of his head. He scowled to himself, then cast a glare at the doctor, who sat back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap. “It’s nobody’s business but my own what I’ve been through.”

“You can’t just carry around your bad feelings, Stan. You have to let them go somehow.”

“I can let go whenever I want. I’m just not done thinking about it.”

“Wherein your problem lies.” The doctor clicked his tongue with a slow shake of his head. “You can think about it all you want, nobody can tell you not to think about it. It’s a matter of forgiving, rather than forgetting. Is there any way at all that you can begin to forgive yourself?”

Stan grew quiet, his chair squeaking beneath him as he shifted positions once more. With a little grunt and a huff, he cast  his gaze away, not quite able to find an appropriate answer to that question. The doctor observed him for a few more minutes before he sat up straight, cleared his throat and closed his eyes.

“I understand that it can be difficult to share your hardships with others,” he said, doing his best to be soothing. “Perhaps there are other ways that you can relieve your stress? Maybe you could recount everything that happened to yourself. Write down what you can remember, and keep track of everything.”

“What good will that do, though? That’ll just drag up the past and make it all… I don’t know. Ugly, again?”

“All scars are ugly,” said the doctor, who nodded with a gentle hum. “But it’s up to you whether you make them scars, or art. The past is gone, but you will always have your memories, whether you want to or not.” Stan listened in silence, relaxing more and more as the man continued.

“You can make your scars into mementos. Sometimes, even the worst of times are worth remembering. They can show you how far you’ve come, and remind you of the places you don’t want to go again. Thinking things over, and coming to terms with them, is a big step-- the  _ next _ step.” The doctor tapped his pen rhythmically against his clipboard, and Stan couldn’t stop himself from sighing. 

“So, what? I should, like, compile a journal?”

“You should write down the things that are important-- or even the things that aren’t important. Just take account of your thoughts, look back on everything that happened, and try to make sense of everything.” The therapist eyed his patient cautiously, keeping his gaze steady and his expression gentle, but firm. “There are things that you don’t want to share with others-- and you don’t have to. But be honest with yourself, at least, and try to find some peace in your own thoughts. Learn to forgive yourself and others for everything that’s happened in the past.”

Stan felt less than confident with this idea, but thirty minutes later, he sat down at the desk in his room with a notebook and a ballpoint pen. Staring down at the lines of his college rule paper, he felt a little peculiar.

_ ‘I don’t know how to start this, so…’  _ He paused and quickly scratched out that line, moving down one so that he could try again to start his catalogue.

_ ‘About three months ago, I nearly OD’d on heroin.’  _ He scratched that out with a sigh, rubbing his temples with his thumbs and trying desperately to think of something. It seemed that no matter what he did, he could never find the perfect way to start anything. There was never anything that he did that seemed right, or perfect, or anything like that.

It didn’t really matter if this thing started perfectly or not, because nobody else in the world was going to read it. There was too much in his head that he didn’t want to share-- the weird stuff that had happened with Craig, the time he’d been raped while drugged, the awkward way his brain twisted reality. He didn’t want anybody to know that stuff-- that was just for him to think about, alone. Nobody would ever know.

Still, there was a piece of him that craved perfection, even if he lacked the confidence to believe he could produce it. He scribbled out line after line of shitty opening sentences before he tore out the first page altogether, and tossed it into the waste basket beside his desk. Heaving a tiny sigh, he closed his eyes, and thought about where he wanted this to start. Not really at the beginning, necessarily. There was no point in talking about his childhood, or his parents or anything like that. He wanted to start at the beginning of this chapter of everything that had happened. This was just a little excerpt from his life story, something that he could build upon and think about. With that in mind, he finally scratched five words into the first line of his paper.

_ ‘Dude-- you gonna eat that?’ _


	9. PlotStuffs (Not A Chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anybody interested in this, this was my idea dump for the whole thing. You can probably get a little bit of info out of this that I just couldn't write out for some reason. It's not really a chapter. It's just... extras. An analysis of certain things, a better look into the whys and hows and whens that I just couldn't formulate a proper timeline for.

I'll try anything once.

After losing his motivation to find happiness, Stan turns to Craig in his time of need. In hopes of learning not to care, he finds himself in an even deeper hole than before.

Hot summer smoke

_"I know that if I'm patient, something has to give," he said, staring at the ground without an ounce of emotion on his face. Slowly, he raised his eyes, and cast me a look that chilled me to the bone. Never before had I seen Craig Tucker glare at any one specific person with such malice. Like an insect under scrutiny, I couldn't help but cow under his gaze, piercing me like a bullet. "Why can't something weird happen to me for once?"_

What happened with Wendy Testaburger: Stan is a big sensitive dummy, and even though they'd been broken up for months, he got jealous seeing her at the dance with another guy. Wendy is not a bad person, and she does not deserve to be bastardized. She's lovely and kind, and genuinely cares about Stan, even if it's not on a truly romantic level.

What happened to Tweek Tweak: body was found at the mouth of the river. Police determined that he had thrown himself into the icy water to commit suicide, though there was never truly conclusive evidence. Craig blames everybody else for his suicide, even going so far as to believe that somebody tried to genuinely murder him. In reality, his end was actually a suicide. Craig is in an interesting state of psychosis at the moment.

Why did Tweek do it?: Hardship and struggle, along with mental instability, was enough to make Tweek crack. It wasn a culmination of struggles between home, school, and his social life. While he was bullied at school for being a homosexual with Craig -- despite the town pushing them to get together in the first place -- he had to deal with his drug dealing parents. Factor in that he was both hooked on their "coffee," and an undiagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, and you have a recipe for disaster. The outcome was an unfortunate reminder of how fragile youth can be.

What happened with Kyle Broflovski: After years and years of depression, Stan started to become less and less functional. While he spent his middle school and early high school years playing football and other sports, he experienced a decline in interest in his Sophomore year. Kyle tried desperately to show him the brighter side of things, taking him to new places, helping him to experience life to the fullest. But Stan just wouldn't get any better. Sophomore year, Stan gave in and joined Facebook again (not really important at all). Stan stops playing sports at the end of his Freshman summer.

As time passed through Sophomore year, Stan started dating Wendy for the umpteenth time. Between breakups, they always remain friends. She is kind and encouraging to him, even after she calls it quits. He doesn't really understand though, because Stan is a big, sensitive dummy.

Anyway, so Kyle is just trying to take care of Stan and watch out for him, like a good best friend. They have their goofy moments and they go on some fun adventures together, though the world doesn't seem as insane as it was when they were kids. Stan seems to realize that he's lost his childlike wonder, while Kyle has maintained his. He's a little jealous that Kyle can still be so happy, and so easily impressed with the world. This puts their relationship at odds, causes some tension, and makes Stan bitter. This annoys the shit out of Kyle, who feels like Stan is a self centered ingrate. He still loves Stan a lot, though, so he tries to brush it off and continues to try to help him.

Stan attends one meeting with a therapist, but never goes back because he "just doesn't feel comfortable" or, "doesn't feel as though he needs one." Kyle is disappointed in his friend for not taking the help he was offered. This puts them at odds.

At the end of Junior year, Stan decides he wants to drop out. He's not happy in school, he feels like he has no future outside of South Park, and he doesn't want anything to do with anyone. Kyle tries to change his mind to no avail, pointing out that he's not happy anywhere, and that he won't have a future outside of South Park if he doesn't work for it. He and Stan argue the point, and it ends with Kyle telling Stan he can do whatever he wants, but he doesn't want to watch him disassemble everything he's worked for. Stan tells him if he doesn't want to watch, that he can just leave him behind "like everybody else has." Kyle does not take the bait. He actually leaves, basically tells Stan to suck a fat one, and works to give himself a bright future. After he graduates, Kyle leaves South Park to attend school all the way in Maryland.

By the way, for those who may be interested, there is a serious amount of subtext in their relationship. They are interested in each other romantically. Kyle is very aware, but Stan is less than perceptive when it comes to feelings. He tends to deny them, ignore them altogether, or avoid them in order to secure his own comfort. So there's not only the tension that has built up between them over Stan fucking up his life, but there's also sexual tension, a bit of romantic tension. There's just tension. SO MUCH ANGST.

Why did Craig drop out?: That's pretty simple. He's a troublemaker, and he's mentally unstable-- he's got Antisocial Personality Disorder. He has no desire to further his education, no desire for social connections, and can't bring himself to give a single shit about school. He's a smart guy. But he's more fucked up than anything. Drugs, sex, hating everything and being angry over Tweek are his only priorities.

Literally, I didn't mean for him to end up with Antisocial Personality, it just sort of happened that way. I was writing something out, one of the excerpts I posted before this, when I realized that he qualified for most of the symptoms. (i.e. a lack of social consciousness, law breaking, drug taking, a lack of regard for personal and interpersonal safety)

You know. The stuff that makes Craig Tucker... Craig Tucker. Well. My version of him anyway. I have a seriously bad habit of writing characters in a way that makes them waaaaay less stable than they were before. 

Why did Craig agree to meet with Stan?: Beats me. He's a complicated guy, and his motives aren't clear. Most likely, he wants to drag somebody down to his level. Kyle was right to say that he just wants to make other people miserable.

What all will happen between Craig and Stan: There'll be a lot of stuff that happens with those two. Drugs are going to tie them together, starting with pills. Gradually, Stan will get sucked into more serious stuff, in which we learn more about Randy's alcohol problem, and Stan's subsequent addiction susceptibility. Also dabble in Stan's previously mentioned alcohol issues from his childhood onward. Craig, meanwhile, will take advantage of his drug addled companion. Sure, Craig may pop some pills from time to time, but he's not a heroin kind of guy. He gets Stan hooked, and helps him get high, but never partakes.

There will be angry makeouts. There will be scuffles and fights. Craig IS going to take advantage of Stan. Because Craig is kind of a giant raging asshole. Craig will eventually come to like Stan as a human being, and start to treat him a little better. Then, everything will go to hell again.

When Kyle comes back: he'll reach out to Stan again. At first, Stan will avoid him at all costs. But it's difficult to do that when you're intoxicated in public and suffering from withdrawal.

_I don't remember anything from before I woke up. Life for the past thirty hours had been a total blur. I must have been high. I had to have been high. That was the only way I could possibly end up here, on the couch, with a blanket over me and an ice pack on my head, in the Broflovski living room._

_I was unbelievably thankful that it was so dark in there, but I wasn't sure what time of night it was. The television was off, and the house was silent save for the sound of my breathing, along with somebody else's. I raised my head, then groaned when I felt a jolt of pain radiate through my body. Every inch of me felt weak and deprived, as though my life force had been entirely drained. Oh, god, if I didn't get a fix soon, I'd be in even worse shape. If I didn't get a fix soon..._

_I needed a fix. I needed it. I needed it. I needed..._

_I couldn't even sit up, let alone stand, walk away, and find stupid Craig to give me more. I could scarcely even lift my head, but when I did, I could see the outline of somebody on the ottoman in the corner of the room. I could hear each and every even breath that they took, and it was, honestly, quite soothing. A breath in, and a breath out. It put my mind at ease, and before long I was drifting off again. The next morning, I wouldn't be so lucky._

How this will end: Craig is going to try to turn Stan away from Kyle, to keep him all to himself and drag him down to the lowest lows possible. Stan will stand up for himself, and say something choice about Craig still being tripped up over a kid who died seven years ago. Craig will snap at that, and pretty much tell him that if he ever talks to him again, he'll maim or disfigure or disable him in some way. They never speak again, and Stan leaves for Denver to undergo rehabilitation. This is where he's telling the story in the first place.


End file.
